


6000 human years and quite a few billion light years of Ineffable Idiocy

by Thyra279



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Being an Idiot (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley Being a Bastard (Good Omens), Crowley Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Crowley Being an Idiot (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Celebration 2020, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mixed bag of random little ineffable moments really, Prompt Fic, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279
Summary: Prompt ficlets for the Good Omens Celebration 2020.From Day 1:Now, the angel C--- found this indefinable Before a perfectly decent place, really, in the way that Luxembourg is a perfectly fine sort of place if you don't mind paper pushers or cut-throat diplomat types whose smiles never quite reach their eyes.[1] It was just that he'd been whipping together carbon and nitrogen and iron for literal eons now, over and over and over again, and it was dirty and heavy work, and he'd really like a holiday or at least to have a go with playing around with some oxygen too, just to mix it up a bit and break the monotony....The first question the angel C--- asked was embarrassingly basic ("Can you hold my place while I nip out for a smoke?"), but once he got going, he took to the whole questioning thing like a duck to water. Soon, he was asking questions left, right and centre. Some of his favourites included:"Look, can I please have a go with the helium? Come oooon, promise I won't make funny voices this time."And: "Whyyyy?"And: "God, why is Michael such a dick?"Originally published on Tumblr.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. Hot Gas and Heavy Metals

**Author's Note:**

> A little ficlet to start off the Good Omens Celebrations.
> 
> How the angel C--- started asking questions.
> 
> Day 1 prompts: “In the Beginning” and “paper”, if you squint.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. That was just one of many beginnings, though, if you're the tolerant sort who doesn't like to discriminate. Quite a lot had already happened even long before then, though most of it had been very dull indeed lately. At least according to the angel C---, later the fallen angel Crawly, later the Serpent of Eden, later the demon Crowley, later the traitor-come-pathetic-excuse-for-a-demon-come-devilishly-handsome-Anthony J. Crowley-depending-on-who-is-asked.

Now, the angel C--- found this indefinable Before a perfectly decent place, really, in the way that Luxembourg is a perfectly fine sort of place if you don't mind paper pushers or cut-throat diplomat types whose smiles never quite reach their eyes.[1] It was just that he'd been whipping together carbon and nitrogen and iron for literal eons now, over and over and over again, and it was dirty and heavy work, and he'd really like a holiday or at least to have a go with playing around with some oxygen too, just to mix it up a bit and break the monotony.

And he believed in the product, he really did, but at the end of a particularly long and dusty shift one day, he started asking questions while shuffling his empty tray down the line of the ethereal canteen.[2]

The first question the angel C--- asked was embarrassingly basic ("Can you hold my place while I nip out for a smoke?"), but once he got going, he took to the whole questioning thing like a duck to water. Soon, he was asking questions left, right and centre. Some of his favourites included:

"Look, can I please have a go with the helium? Come oooon, promise I won't make funny voices this time."

And: "Whyyyy?"

And: "God, why is Michael such a dick?"

But he also asked more profound questions like:

"Why?"[3]

And: "Oi… Anyone else want to unionise?"

Few of his colleagues showed any interest, but the angel C--- believed in having principles, at least until better ones came along, and so he went on strike. And when Lucifer popped by with the lads that very same day and said "hey, Crowley, my man, we’re just on our way to discuss the whole job conditions and career advancement thing" – well, the angel C--- didn't have anything else on that afternoon, did he?

And so things came to an end for the angel C--- with a descent into a very hot, terribly smelly bath.

But the demon Crawly was the same sort of character, really, and he'd always been an optimist at heart. And even as he fell and fell and drowned and burned, he couldn't help but think of this as not just an end, but a new beginning too.

And some ten billion light years and 6000 Earth years later, at yet another new sort of beginning, the devilishly handsome Anthony J. Crowley lies down on a picnic blanket near Devil’s Dyke, South Downs. Arms behind his head, and basking in the midnight glow of the moon and the stars and his angel, he can't help but smile up towards the nebulas above them.

"Do you miss them, dear?"

"Nah, not much, Angel. Was mostly just a load of hot gas." He stretches and Aziraphale's hand finds his in the dark and squeezes it. "Besides, they look much better from down here."

[1] The Archangel Gabriel will come to consider Luxembourg one of his three favourite places on Earth alongside Liechtenstein and floor 13-17 of IBM's headquarters. His smile, coincidentally, has never quite made its way to any of his two human-corporation eyes or 587 true-form eyes.

[2] And no, angels do not eat, but that did not take away from the fact that the food really hadn't been that good lately.

[3] 's a good question.


	2. Clan Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of Good Omens Celebration 2020. At the evening of the swap, Aziraphale ponders the meaning of his tartan.
> 
> Prompts: Contrast and Cotton.

“…What?” Not-quite-Crowley-Crowley stared at him, mouth agape, an expression which did Aziraphale’s poor old corporation absolutely no favours.

“I said, could you give me a twirl?”

“I’m still a bloody demon for a few hours longer, Angel, I’m not gonna twirl. Do me the favour of letting me die with my dignity intact.” 

“Crowley.” The sharpness of Aziraphale’s admonishment was swallowed by the concrete walls of Crowley’s living room. Their owner sighed.

“I’m kidding Aziraphale, we’re gonna be fine. Just a nice little trip up- and downstairs for us, a cosy heart-to-heart with some archangels and the dukes of Hell.” Crowley’s voice softened at the angel’s disapproval, sounding oddly mild in Aziraphale’s throat. “And then we’ll be right as rain.”

“I know that, dear. I hope you do too. Have a little faith.”

“Erh, ’s a bit of a touchy subject for me.”

“Have faith in Agnes Nutter, then.”

Crowley shifted awkwardly in the foreign corporation. The lofty sniff he managed was more his own. “I’ve met quite a lot of witches in my time and believe me, most of them are not to be trusted. The things they tried to do to us poor devils. Tricky bunch. Verrrry tricky bunch. Quite a few of them were positively debauched, and that’s coming from a demon who’s terrifically debauched himself, you know." 

Aziraphale managed to disguise his snort as a throaty sneeze.[1] "Ble- gesundheit. Did I ever tell you about that weirdo with the black cat and massive warty nose up in Staffordshire?”

“You did, yes. Several times a century for the last 400 years. I believe you've told most of the northern hemisphere by now.”

“She tried to fly on a broomstick, Aziraphale. A broomssssstick.”

“Yes, dear.” Crowley mimed vaguely at sweeping the floor and shook Aziraphale’s head before falling into bewildered contemplation. Aziraphale took the opportunity to hike up the metaphorical bootstraps of Crowley’s unruly corporation to circle around Crowley and his own corporation. It was an odd reversal of their ritual, familiar and disconcerting all at once. The reflection in the dark glass windows at the end of the room belied the oddness of the scene, the undercurrent of worry in both of them. And still, there in the window was the comforting lankiness of Crowley, though a little stiffer than normal. And there, his own slightly stuffier corporation.

Aziraphale turned to look at the real version of it. It had been close to thirty years since the last time he’d really looked at himself. He liked his corporation, always had. It was nowhere near as disarmingly lascivious as Crowley’s, yet it had its own charm, a warmth and comfort which easily won over humans and, it seemed, at least one otherworldly being too.

It may have very recently undergone some major restorative work, but it looked more or less the same as it had for the last 6000 years. His clothes, however, caught his interest.

“Are you checking me out, Angel?”

“No, dear, I am taking the opportunity to, ah, check out myself.”

“Ah. Can’t blame ya, good call.”

“Oh hush. I’m taking a look at my attire, Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s garments told a story themselves, reminders of little not-so-chance encounters and long-planned secret evenings together. Which genre the story belonged to he couldn’t bear to contemplate tonight. 

Aziraphale knew Crowley’s clothes, even the new ones, could have recited every tailored line had he had the audience.[2] He had never really paid his own clothes the same courtesy, and now, he may not have the chance again.

The demon stood still, let him survey his beloved khaki coat, find the innocent-looking shoulder that Crowley had blown clean only days earlier. The fraying waistcoat that might seem past its expiration date but had at least another decade in it. He hoped it would get it.

The cotton-blend bowtie he’d started wearing just before that evening in the church when…-

It had quickly become his favourite accessory. He’d tried out a cravat during some years in the 1950s and 60s. It had suited him rather well, he’d thought. And yet, he’d kept coming back to the bow tie, to the beloved lines of the tartan and their soft reassurances around his neck. He hadn’t gone a day without it since 1967. 

Heaven’s Dress. He’d rather liked the look and feel of his uniform during the Celestial War (it had been the only part of the War he’d been enthusiastic about). The tartan had seemed like a revelation; a rare surprise in those small days before Earth. After an eternity in strictly monotone fabrics - eggshell, vanilla, ivory or sheer white - the audacity of different shades mashing up together in such close proximity had been thrilling. It had made such a big impression on him that he’d seized the opportunity to popularise the pattern when it arose a few millennia later.

He’d got the chance when he developed Edinburgh in the 16th century. Crowley had been too busy working on Glasgow himself to bother Aziraphale much and so, he’d had plenty of free time.

Now, contrary to popular belief, it was Aziraphale who introduced tartan to Scotland, not the other way round. It had been a simple enough thing to slip in, during his town planning meetings, and the Scots had taken to tartan like, well, like chickens to water or whatever it was Crowley had said. His tartan venture had been quite the success for the Principality.[3] So much so he’d decided to have a go at the weaving himself and reproduce the one he’d seen in Heaven an eternity ago.

And he really had gone in fully intending to weave up the beige-on-beige tartan in honour of Heaven. When he’d looked at the result, however, it had seemed just a little off. After a week’s contemplation and rather more than just the angel’s share of whisky, he’d realised that Heaven’s pattern was bland. It was too beige, lacked any form of nuance or depth. What it was lacking, he’d come to realise, was a bit of contrast. 

And so, Aziraphale had played around a little, had added a little darker shading here and there, then wound a gentle red line from left to right across the pattern. Before he knew it, thin twin red-and-nearly-black lines had slithered up from the bottom of the pattern too, wrapping themselves around the softer diagonals, and Aziraphale’s tartan had come together. It was certainly unusual, but to Aziraphale, it had felt just right. He’d named it Heaven’s Dress as he’d set out to do. The blessings and protections he’d wound into the fabric had had nothing to do with Heaven, however.

A rather pointed cough roused him from his musings. “Am I witnessing the dawning realisation that tartan’s really terribly unstylish?” Crowley was looking at him, fretting hands tucked into loose linen trousers.

“Not quite.” Aziraphale offered up a little smile at the sight of his tartan now guarding Crowley’s neck. The demon looked at him expectantly, but Aziraphale left out his usual retort.

Eventually, Crowley sighed and crossed his arms. “I do have faith, you know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” The demon looked down at himself. “I have faith in you.” He picked up his wineglass and staggered over next to Aziraphale to flop down into his throne with as much flair as Aziraphale’s corporation could manage. “Tell you what, Angel. If we make it out of there ali- unscathed and get to Berkeley Square as planned, I’ll twirl all the way from there to the bloody Ritz for you, how’s that?”

“Very well, dear. You know, I think I’ll indulge in a slice of their Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. When we get there. And we will. I have every faith in both of us.” Aziraphale straightened the bow tie and gave Crowley’s cheek two quick pets. He set off on a practice saunter through Crowley’s cavernous apartment to perform a little stylish miracle where it wouldn’t be heard, doubling back on the way out of the door. “I’ll look forward to your whirligigs.”

“…What?!”

[1] To his knowledge, neither he nor Crowley had ever sneezed in the entirety of their existences, but Crowley seemed too preoccupied to notice.

[2] Aziraphale had found receptive audiences on a few occasions. One time in 1979, in a bar with a bunch of UCL students in SoHo, he’d spoken so passionately on the nuances of black in Crowley’s wardrobe he’d been rather alarmed to find he’d accidentally started Goth subculture.

[3] Aziraphale had been really very miffed indeed when the English conjured up the Dress Act of 1746 and banned the use of tartan. He’d made sure to block every subsequent attempt by the English to change their national anthem to anything more stirring than the dull monotony of “God Save the Queen”. Even he can see the pettiness of this, and yet he keeps at it to this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Thyra279 on Tumblrrr.
> 
> Inspired by this lovely meta post on Aziraphale’s tartan: https://bluebandedagate.tumblr.com/post/187971072711/a-discourse-on-tartan


	3. Unexpected Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of the Good Omens Celebration 2020.
> 
> On a late summer's day in the middle of London, a demon runs into an angel. Literally. Aziraphale sees something he likes.
> 
> Prompts: Unexpected (and) leather. What a beautiful coincidence.

Crowley is not the sort to get into inspirational quotes and motivational posters – in fact, they light his contrarian side on fire to the extent that he has been known to lick the walls of Hell whenever he sees those signs after particularly aggravating Hell-and-safety briefings.[1]

There is one saying, however, that's always seemed pretty on point: Expect the unexpected. He is constantly caught out by how accurate this saying is. To be fair, for a demon whose strongest suit is making things change and getting himself into trouble as a result of his own wily plans, it is quite good advice.

Still, it is quite hard to go about prepared for every single unexpected thing that might happen.

One of the things he definitely does not expect to happen one normal summer night in London in 1979 is to run into his hereditary enemy. Literally run into him – they collide coming around a corner just off Westminster and Crowley pretends not to notice the way the angel's old khaki coat feels when he grabs hold of it to stop himself from falling over.

"Bloody Hell, look where you're going, Aziraphale!" Aziraphale looks shocked; doesn't appear to have even noticed that Crowley's still clinging on to him. He's not meeting his eyes, so something is definitely wrong. He lets go off the angel, rather more reluctantly than he would've liked, and steers them both away from the the underground station exit spewing half-wit tourists at them every other second.

"Aziraphale?" The angel still isn't looking at him. There's no hint of his usual greetings, the customary beaming smile that makes the world jingle or his snippy pout that also makes Crowley's world tingle- erh, jingle. Crowley feels quite caught out. Until he realises that Aziraphale is looking at him. He's just not looking at his face.

It's been a good couple of months since they've seen each other, and in that time, Crowley's had a jolly old time giving his wardrobe an overhaul. He is over the terrible artificial shirts and massive moustaches of the 1970s. They've had their fun, and Crowley sure did look great in his moustache. But times are changing, and he's sensing an age of sleekness and sharp suits coming up in the 1980s. Now, Crowley's very much looking forward to getting back into a nice, tailored look, but for this last year of the 1970s, he's decided to have some fun.

For the first time in eleven years, his upper lip lives free from the oppression of facial growth. His hair is long still, but quiffed and back-brushed enough to go full mohawk if Crowley doesn't keep a firm grip on it. He's added a single silver earring to the ensemble and a pair of simple, expensive sunglasses.

Where the fun really starts, however, is below his neck. He's gone with a theme, and that theme is tight. A washed-out burgundy, obscenely V-necked t-shirt that clings to him snugger than snakeskin is tucked neatly into his first-ever pair of skinny, dark jeans.[2] The whole thing is clipped off with a black leather belt adorned with his favourite snake-head buckle. His feet today are black leather boots, and, topping off the look rather spectacularly, in Crowley's humble opinion, is a short, open black leather jacket.

The angel's eyes have dipped all the way to his boots and are now travelling slowly back up again, taking in his leather jacket as if it were the map to the Holy Grail itself.[3] His eyes look hard, stormy, and Crowley feels an absurd need to giggle like a schoolgirl. He settles on trying to stuff his hands into his jean pockets instead. They don't fit, so he juts out his hip and lights a fag.

"See something you like, Angel?"

Aziraphale's eyes snap up to meet his eyes. He blinks, and Crowley's fairly certain there's a bit of a blush there. Curse these sunglasses. "That's a lot of leather." His voice, too, is hard and low. Bloody Hell.

He takes a drag of the cigarette. Casual. Casual, you twit. "I've worn leather before… Those times in California, all those blasted Roman sandals, those smelly hides that horrid winter in Siberia..."

"Not like this." The angel's voice rumbles, his eyes without their usual twinkle when they stray a little south again. It's a voice Crowley hasn't heard since Paris. It's a look he's only ever seen in glances. 6000 years, and the angel still surprises him. Custom does not fucking wither his infinite variety indeed. It might be the cleverest thing this demon idiot has ever said.

Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool. "Did not have you down as a leather kind of guy, Angel."

"I'm not." His eyes are still on his jacket, though.

"Ah."

And then the angel's eyes snap up to meet his own.

"I'm not a guy." And if he'd known this Aziraphale might happen, Crowley would've happily worn an entire cow.

"…Right." Amusement floods the angel's eyes, making them twinkle like the stars. Aziraphale blinks, then smiles, and the moment's gone.

"I'm sorry, Crowley, I've got to go. I'm running terribly late for a lecture at UCL."

"Right, well. I'll leave you to it. See you around, Angel." And Crowley turns and stalks away, and tries very hard not to look back to see if the angel's watching him.

[1] The long-and-short of Hell's Hell-and-safety meetings is always: We don't care. Yet they always manage to find a way to make the briefings torturously tedious and most decidedly not brief in any way. The last one, in 1977 AD, lasted three months in human years.

[2] Before this point, Crowley already suspected they wouldn't be his last. After this chance encounter, he designed and created another eight pairs just on his way back to Mayfair.

[3] It's really very unfair of Aziraphale's eyes. Crowley has already apologised numerous times over the years for losing the Holy Grail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Thyra279 over on Tumblr.


	4. High Hopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 of the Good Omens Celebration 2020.
> 
> Prompts: "Force" and "fruit"
> 
> "Hullo, Crowley. You know, I never should have let you talk to into getting me this portable telephone, it keeps moving about and hiding itself in the-"
> 
> "Aziraphale." Oh. Crowley's voice sounded harsh, which wasn't unusual, but also very noticeably strained, which was.
> 
> "Are you alright, dear?"
> 
> "Uhhrm…"
> 
> "Crowley? Whatever's the matter?"
> 
> "I've… I've been arrested."

On a warm autumn's day in 2005, Aziraphale's mobile phone rang out the same jarring electronic jingle 72 times before he managed to locate it behind an old bookcase full of A Breefe History of Northern Shropshire, vol. 1-281. Pushing the bookcase aside, he dusted off the little black-and-white screen and fixed it with a hard stare. The mobile, which had been firing off its jingles increasingly furiously, grew soft and mellow on the 73th ring, and Aziraphale turned his attention to the Nokia's caller.

"Hullo, Crowley. You know, I never should have let you talk to into getting me this portable telephone, it keeps moving about and hiding itself in the-"

"Aziraphale." Oh. Crowley's voice sounded harsh, which wasn't unusual, but also very noticeably strained, which was.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Uhhrm…"

"Crowley? Whatever's the matter?"

"I've… I've been arrested."

"Have you, now?" Aziraphale let out a relieved little chuckle and sat down in his favourite chair. It was nothing the demon hadn't tried before. Keep at shadowy, nefarious business long enough, and it was bound to happen. He'd lost count of how often Crowley had found himself jumbled up with the police.[1]

Aziraphale himself had found himself come into too close contact with London's various police forces a few times since their invention. He usually encountered the Mets, though he had a soft spot for The City of London Police and carried out his substitute demonic temptations within their Square Mile if he could help it. Politicians and bankers were soft targets. Besides, the City Police always served up bourbon biscuits during their questioning. The angel idly wondered if Crowley had been served up any biscuity treats during his questioning and before being hit with an embarrassing pinch of jealousy.

"When'll you be done, do you reckon? You could come over for wine and commiserations later, perhaps? I think a Chateau Cheval should do quite nicely." He lifted a hand to play with the phone cable, then remembered it wasn't there. "…Bring some biscuits."

"It'saaah. It's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

"What's the problem?"

"Nfffhhh well, I've been in here for coming up two weeks for starters." Aziraphale sat up.

"Crowley, are you- are you in jail?"

"I, uh. Yeah."

"Well, get out of there!"

"Told you it was complicated."

"Do you need me to, ah, to come and get you?"

There was an interesting kind of silence at the other end. "Angel, are you offering to come and break me out of jail?"

"I'm an angel, I do not break anyone out of jails," Aziraphale deadpanned with the practice of several centuries. "It would be a rescue."

"Well, it won't work. I mean, it would work. I could easily get out of here, that's not the issue. Wouldn't solve the actual problem."

"What is the problem then?"

"It's erhhh…"

Aziraphale shifted in his seat, growing a little impatient. "Where are you? What happened?"

The demon sighed. "I'm at Dartmoor Prison. Got arrested near Torquay."

"What were you doing in Cornwall of all places?"

"I… well. I've got a piece of land near Torquay, in a nice deserted place. Thought it'd be out of the way enough. It's quite a big piece of land, really. Massive, actually."

The angel couldn't suppress another tut. "What would you need a massive piece of land for, Crowley?"

"I, ah, I built a farm." Aziraphale could sense the demon's embarrassment pulsing down the line. He himself was caught entirely off guard at the aggressively urbanite yuppie's confession, but tried to sound accepting.

"Oh. Right. What do you do with it, as it were?"

"I grow… things."

"Yes, well-"

"Mainly weed."

"…What?"

"Marijuana, Angel."

"Yes, I know what weed is, thank you." For the second time, Aziraphale felt a rush of relief. "That's alright, then, isn't it? I'm sure growing illegal cannabis is a perfectly acceptable demonic activity. I assume that's why you were arrested?"

"Yup." For a moment, a hint of pride entered the demon's voice. "I've grown lots of it. Don't know if you saw the newspapers last Monday? Apparently, there was quite a big buzz about it being the second largest marijuana plant ever discovered in the UK?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale crooned. He hadn't so much as looked at an earthly newspaper for several months, but he didn't like to dampen the demon's (evil) spirits when he was already down. "It all sounded terribly impressive."

"Hnghyeah, well. The coppers said so themselves, actually. They only got a preliminary sweep of the place done, though, before I set my lawyers on them. We've been fighting their warrant. It's been good fun, actually, lots of frustrations all around. Easy job for my side, you know. And we always get bonus points on our job performance for getting lawyers involved. You know I can really use the, erh, goodwill this'll generate downstairs, it'll sort me out for the next few years."

Aziraphale nodded absentmindedly, which Crowley seemed to understand.

"Unfortunately, even my bastard lawyers and enough money to bribe a small state haven't been able to get the judge to drop the warrant. So according to the lawyers, Cornwall's righteous police force, narcotics division, will be able to do a full sweep of the farm some time the day after tomorrow."

"And why exactly is that a problem?" The angel offered when Crowley fell quiet. He was met with a great, heaving sigh loud enough to hear through the telephone line.

"The thing is." The demon drew a breath, then let it out again through hissing teeth. "The thing is. The weed farm's a front."

"…What?"

Crowley sounded flustered now, voice straining again with every word. "It's a front. The cannabis. 'S a cover."

"Why would you… what were you… what in Heaven's name are you doing that's so terrible that you thought a cannabis plantation would serve as an appropriate cover-up, Crowley?"

"Well, well hnghfff. Look, I can't tell you over the phone, I've got a reputation to maintain, alright? Anthony J. Crowley's been going strong since the war, and, and- don’t really want to let him go. Just. Just go out there tomorrow – I know you've got nothing on, don't even start – and get rid of the evidence for me. No, nah, leave the weed crops. But there's a barn. A green barn in the middle of it all. Burn it, please. Maybe don't look inside it, but – eurgh – s'fine if you have to. I don't care how you do it, but get rid of everything in there."

Aziraphale hesitated, more shaken by Crowley than he'd been for a good fifty years.

"I'm, erh, I don't really know, Crowley, I think you should tell me-"

"Aziraphale, please. Please, Angel." Crowley never begged.

"Oh. Oh, alright then." There was a rush of demonic relief down the phone.

"Tha-"

"Don't."

"Look, I'll make it up to you, alright. Whatever you want. Tell you what, I'll buy you sushi at that stuck-up little Japanese place you like so much, every bloody month for the next decade. If you want."

"Alright," Aziraphale huffed.

The demon started to sound slightly more like himself. "I'll throw in a good sake and dessert too if you promise never to bring this up ever again."

"I'll have to see for myself how bad this is, Crowley, before I make good on that promise."

"Fair, that's fair. Just please, Angel, 's no big deal, okay? It was just a little lapse of judgement. Here's how to get to the barn…"

And so, the very next day, the Principality found himself wandering down a dirt track in Cornwall, sore and irritable after hours on overnight public transport and more nervous than he'd care to admit at what he might have agreed to. The stench of the marijuana greeted him long before the greenhouses even became visible. A single police car was parked further down the track at the main entrance to the farm, so on reaching the edge of it, he looked casually left and right before dipping below the police tape. No one noticed him, and he quickly disappeared between row after endless row of huts and greenhouses.

The place was like a labyrinth – literally – and he had to rely on Crowley's instructions to find its centre. The air hummed with the insistent song of thousands of heat lamps. Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that he wasn't entirely immune to the charming waft of cannabis in the hot air around him when suddenly, there it was, a singular old green barn. It was singing at him. Aziraphale wasn't entirely certain he wasn't hallucinating it, but it felt sturdy enough beneath his grasp when he tore the heavy padlock away from the door. The door rattled irately at him, but at least the barn stopped singing.

He hesitated, one hand on the door. Crowley had always taken care, he suspected, to hide the darker sides of his demonic activities from him. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be privy to them. Unbidden scenes of blood and chains and fires and screams sidled into his mind, finally breaking through the defences he'd constructed as soon as he'd put down the phone last night. He didn't want to know. And yet, he'd promised. He was an angel, and Crowley needed his help, and he'd promised.

Here goes, he thought, allowing himself a deep, steadying gulp of air (and wasn't that lovely, the sweet heady rush that came with it) before pushing the door aside.

Aziraphale blinked. Then blinked again. He blinked a total of 15 times before he entered.

Aziraphale had tried very hard not to imagine all the sinister things he might find in the middle of Crowley's marijuana plot. Even if he'd given himself over to pondering every possibility, he wouldn't have expected this.

The barn was lit up by the same warm, red glow as the rest of the farm. A few dusty skylights gave the room a sense of space that it didn't quite deserve. The air smelt sweet in here too, but it wasn't the pungent suffocation of the cannabis. No, in here, the air hummed with unexpected freshness, with the heady, delicious scent of fruit. There they were, lined up along the walls, a few peach trees, lemons, pears and berries – roses and apple trees too. All ripe, ready for the picking.

The fruit trees couldn't keep his attention, however. In the middle of the room was a little meadow full of wildflowers, bursting with colour. Bees whipped around from stem to stem, and towering over them all, stretching towards the skylights, were the tallest sunflowers Aziraphale had ever seen.

It was beautiful. An age went by while Aziraphale explored the flowers, overcome with surprise at their maker as he smelt, touched and tasted his way through the barn. He senses Crowley in every petal, in every lush green leaf, and couldn't stop himself from lying down in the middle of the meadow, giant sunflowers watching over him. He imagined Crowley here, sneaking in to do the same. It seemed absurd, the smooth, black hardness of Crowley in the middle of this colourful, buzzing force of life. Aziraphale ached to see him here, almost imagined that he could.

The skylights had gone dark above him by the time he got up. Only once on the other end of the barn, he faced what he'd come here to do. It seemed a terrible tragedy, and yet he'd made a commitment to Crowley.

With a great sigh, he lowered his trusty satchel from his shoulder, taking out a stack of little brown bags that hadn't been in there a moment before. He went around the meadow again, caressed every flower, letting it know how beautiful it was. He persuaded even the looming sunflowers to bend down and let go of a few of their seeds. Then he rounded on the fruit trees, trusty tartan tin in hand, and picked a single piece of fruit from each and every one and a little prickly cutting from every rose.

Satchel in hand, the angel took one final look at Crowley's dirty secret, this micro-paradise he'd hidden away. Then he snapped his fingers and sent it all to somewhere he hoped was good, somewhere with fresh air and a warming sun, and just enough rainfall. He didn't notice the extra weight of his bag, and he kept it close, held it in his lap on the sleepy train back to London. Only once he made it safely back to the bookshop did he let go, taking care to count each and every brown bag, folding out their creases and speaking to them gently, as if the plants could still hear him.

He spent the next two weeks drying out the fruit until they let go of their precious cores, and when it all was ready, he put it all in the best firesafe and airtight container he could find.

The container found a new home behind a bookcase full of A Breefe History of Northern Shropshire, and it survived a fire, the apocalypse and the layers of dust that settled over it in the years after that.

Aziraphale never mentioned a word to Crowley, enjoying plenty of sushi, sake and dessert for his efforts.

He carefully guarded the little seedlings until a day very far into the future indeed, after yet another war, when the angel casually floated the idea of the two of them acquiring a little cottage together somewhere outside of London and the demon scoffed in his face at such a ridiculous suggestion. Somewhere, perhaps, with a nice little garden that Crowley might take care of. He had just the thing to get it started.

[1] Some time during a dull few years in the 1970s, Aziraphale had gifted him a scratch map of the UK counties, instructing the demon to scratch off every county he'd been arrested in. Last time the angel had seen it, sometime during 2003, two thirds of the map had been scratched off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up getting away with me, but I like it.
> 
> I'm Thyra279 on Tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Thyra279 on Tumblr, it's aaaall strictly Good Omens over there.


End file.
